Duende.
by Roberto Lorenz

The guitar begins its cry of anguish,
and time begins to stand still.
The shadowy figures of death gather round
to hear the echoes of a lost time.

In the stillness of the night,
when even the stars are afraid to hear,
when the soul is laid bare,
and the sword of ridicule hangs over the heads
of those brave enough to give voice to their pain.

The song begins and the Duende roams free,
the pain of the world is focused in one place,
and the inner most thoughts are known to all.
Silver strings weave their intricate web around 
the cries of pain.

A bird in the distance catches the sound on the wind
and flies off into the dark safety of the night.
But there is no hiding from the sound, for it reaches into
the darkest recesses of the soul.

And later as the sun begins to reclaim its place,
and the shadows give way to a new dawn,
the soul becomes warmer, as the night gives a final sigh
and the duende returns to its resting place in peace.

<BACK